Letters to You
by live0laugh0love0
Summary: So she started the only way she knew how. Starting at the top of the paper, with her quick, blocky handwriting, she began with one simple word: Castle
1. Chapter 1

**Hi there!**

**Author's note at the end.**

**Enjoy!**

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><p>She's only doing this because her therapist told her to. Said something about helping deal with the incident. She can't say shooting yet. It's still too fresh in her brain; the sounds, the panic, the colors, the pain. They all swirl in her vision until she can't think straight. If it weren't for him treating her like a child, she wouldn't be forced to do half the shit he's told her to do: Describe how you <em>feel<em>. How does that make you _feel_. What are you _feeling_? If she was being honest, which she rarely was, she was feeling lost and scared and alone. She's confused and hurt and angry and in so much damn pain. She would never admit that, though. That's weakness. But that's why she was being forced to do this. He saw right through her. Not many people did, but he did; it was his job. He knew that she wasn't ready to face the world just yet. She still needed some time.

So she's going to write these letters, pour her heart and soul out onto the paper, and then seal them up, addressed to no one. But as she continues to realize how stupid that sounds, she knows who she's going to write them to. The only person that's been on her mind every second of every day since it happened, since her life was almost taken away from her. He'll never get them, but having a name, a face, a voice to imagine, makes it more real. Makes it easier to see this as having a purpose, because most of this had no purpose other than to make her look weak and bring her to tears. She'll just scribble his name across the front and then bury it in the desk drawer; no one will ever know, it will be her own little secret. Because if no one knew, then she wasn't breaking down, right?

She still hasn't seen him. She doesn't know if she's ready. Doesn't know if it will send her running, because she's done hiding things from him. She justifies the letters to him as a step in the right direction, a way to finally understand her own feelings. Once she understands what she's feeling, she could dive in and understand someone else's, and then understand a life of dynamic; a dance with two people. It was hard for her, harder than she ever wanted to admit. But she's hopeful, and that's a start.

She doesn't have his way with words, though. Lacks the creativity and fluidity that comes so naturally to him. He has the ability to tell a story and leave people wanting more, hanging on every last word. He creates new human beings with flaws and quarks and problems and triumphs. He writes a backstory to a human that's never seen the light of day, a family that's never been, a love story never told. But he tells that story and makes it better than anything that could ever be humanly possible. He can express emotions like they're a physical object that can be explored, turned around and around in the palm of your hand. The sky is bluer, the grass is greener, and everything in between takes on a persona of absolute bliss. It still amazes her to this day.

She doesn't have the ability to create a life. She can't conjure up the words to describe love and passion, to set a scene better than anything she's already seen, to tell a story that's already been. But she's going to try her best to make this more than a therapeutic exercise. She wants it to mean something in the end of it all. She doesn't do things that don't give her results. That's a waste of time. She didn't want to waste any more time. She'll never send them, never let anyone see the emotion she'll allow to seep onto the paper. But Kate Beckett never does anything half assed. If she's going to do this, she's going to do it right. She needs to get better. She can't stand being so dependent of others. Walls weren't supposed to be shaky. A person had walls to show their strength; she was still strong, or getting back to it.

So she's going to write these letters, one every week or so at her own pace, to help her along in coping with the pain and memories and torment that she now feels radiating not only from her physical wounds but from deep within her soul and from the thoughts that cloud every aspect of her mind. Maybe by doing this, everything won't be so cloudy. Maybe she'll finally shed some light on what she needs to do next. Maybe she'll pull the good from the bad. Even though she was trying to be optimistic, she still thought it was stupid as hell. But she would be damned if she gave up; no way.

As she sat at the big oak desk in the cabin nestled in the woods, away from the city she protected, away from him, she breathed in before addressing six individual envelops. His name flowed naturally from her fingers. She took her time, making sure it was straight and neat and perfect. She stacked each on top of the other and placed them out of view, hoping no one would ever find them. She grabbed a fresh sheet of paper, suddenly feeling overwhelmed by the blankness that the page projected. It was intimidating, the thought of expressing herself. What if she couldn't handle it? What if she panicked and ran out and away like she so often did? No, she couldn't, not this time. So she started the only way she knew how. Starting at the top of the paper, with her quick, blocky handwriting, she began with one simple word: _Castle_

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><p><strong>I'm back! I thought of this and liked the idea. Since I didn't get much feedback on a one shot feed, I thought that this could serve as a reoccurring one shot. I'm doing exactly what the prologue says; writing six letter pertaining to the shooting over several weeks. They won't necessarily be the longest stories I've ever written, but I want to explore this aspect of the show that I never have before. <strong>

**It's going to be rated T, because of language. I love writing angst even though I'm a happy person, but I want this to be more angry than sad. It won't all be angry, though. I'll try my best to make each letter unique to the character and what I think, she felt.**

**I'm still open to one shot ideas! So please, please, please, if you have an idea do not hesitate to let me know!**

**Please review and let me know what you think.**

**xoxo**


	2. Chapter 2: Pain

**Hi there!**

**I had more time today than I thought, so the first letter is done earlier than expected. Each one has a different topic. Thanks for the kind words on the prologue and for favoriting and following; it means so much!**

**Enjoy!**

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><p>Castle,<p>

You don't understand how much pain I'm in. The meds are starting to wear off, and the pain is slowly but surely creeping up from every angle, every nerve ending, and every last corner of my mind. It's teasing me, reminding me that I'm broken. I've got pieces missing, I ripped, I cracked, I died. I had everything taken away from me, but I fought to get it back, and it left me with a clear reminder that it was angry that I had won. So now, for now, I have to feel this hell inside of me. It was a victory, so why am I hurting so badly? What doesn't kill you makes you stronger? Bullshit.

Sometimes I think I rather have died, wish that the fucker would have made his mark. One precise, painless rip through my heart, leaving me lying on the grass; I wouldn't have had those few horrifying seconds on the ground though, because I would have already been gone. I wouldn't have been sliced open and had my insides violated. But I made it, and I have to sit here as my scar tugs and twists my side. I can't wear what I want or it'll rub and send shooting pain through my core; I learned that the hard way. I can't eat what I want; can't upset my stomach; too late, it's always in knots. I can't work, I can't clean, I can't shower, I can't do anything, because if I move too ambitiously, take too deep of a breath, hell, blink too hard, the pain takes over.

You'd think that was the worst of it, right? I wish. The burning in my chest is like running straight into a brick wall. It makes it hard to breathe, the heat exploding over and over like I'm walking through hell, ready to dance with the devil. It will flare up in the middle of the day without warning, feeling like someone's digging their nails into my heart and laughing at me. The pain leaves me on my knees, biting on my hand and squeezing my eyes shut to keep from passing out. The pressure is enough to make me want to pull my hair out. It's like nothing I've ever experienced, besides taking the initial bullet. And then, it's gone, like it hadn't even happened. It fucks with me. Maybe I am crazy. I have a token for the life that I lost, and one for the life that I saved. So why do I get a hole in my chest for being alive? For bringing justice. For trying to make a difference. The world has a pretty screwed up way of showing its appreciation. Life's a bitch.

It hurts the worst at the end of the day when I have nothing else to do but focus on it. I dread sunsets because that means it's just going to get darker and darker until my subconscious reminds me that it still hurts so bad. That it's the worst pain I've ever experienced. I can feel it pulsating and itching and putting pressure on everything in its path. I lay awake at night begging it to go away. Praying that it will give me one moment of peace, to catch my breath, to process my thoughts, to just be. I guess that's too damn hard to do. It takes everything I have not to scream out just for that one second of relief that it brings. So I lay there with a pillow over my tear stained face to keep every fucking thing inside like I always do. I'm so sick of it that I'm now hurting from that too.

It's a different pain, though. It sits in my gut inching its way around and around, reminding me that I screwed up. I went down a deep, dark path, and never made my way back. I can't be anything but strong. I can't show weakness and I can't cry in front of others, and I can't express myself because I trained myself not to. I built these walls up and before I knew it, I was trapped inside; too small to climb out and be who I once was. I wanted to be so far away from everything that was going on that I didn't realize it was screwing me for the long run. I let it define me, drive me, it's made me who I am; if only I would have known then what I know now. I don't want to be that anymore. All I want is to tell someone I'm not okay, have someone hold me in their arms and make this new found pain go away. It hurts the worst. I screwed up, and I don't know if I can go back.

I wake up every morning, and the pain hits me again, makes me gasp for breath. Then, I have to pick myself up and go through my day, all alone in this big empty cabin. I want to get better and stop hurting and come back and be normal, but I can't until the physical and mental and emotion pain decides to leave me alone. Until this hole in my chest stops mocking me. Until I can breathe without thinking my side will rip open. Until I can be that person that I once was, that I want to be so, so badly. But until then, I need to let the pain consume me, and hope I can make it out okay. Hope can do crazy things, just like a sniper's bullet. But I didn't let that take me down, and I won't let the pain suffocate me, I can't. No matter how bad it hurts. I'll be okay.

Beckett

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><p><strong>Please review!<strong>

**xoxo**


	3. Chapter 3: Shock

**Hi there!**

**So I didn't get much feedback on the first letter. I don't know if I posted too quickly or if people just didn't like it. But that's okay, because here's the second one! I hope you guys like this one better than the first. Thanks for the reviews, favorites, and follows; it means a lot!**

**Also, I know I said I would be updating this every week or so, but I've had a lot of extra time (the weekend and class cancellations) so these first two are up early!**

**Enjoy!**

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><p>Castle,<p>

I was so consumed by the pain that it's just now hit me. A man with a gun shot me. I almost died. I almost left everything and everyone that cares for me. I can't believe how close I came to losing it all. I have a father and family and friends and colleagues who care about me. And I would have left them all because of a guy with a gun. I would have been gone in the blink of an eye, a short breath, the pull of a trigger.

I take back what I said before, I was so angry and in so much pain. I still am, but reason has finally kicked in and slapped me in the face; telling me how much of a bitch I was to even have those negative thoughts for even a second. I'm so unbelievably relieved that he missed that God forsaken mark. I had a literal target on my chest, a little red x, a delete button. He missed. I'm alive. Oh God, I'm alive. How could I have been so stupid to think for two seconds that I wanted to die? It makes me sound like a freaking lunatic! I have so much to live for, so many people that care about me, so many people that I care about.

I can't believe it. It keeps running over and over in my brain. The words overlap, replaying time after time until my skull pounds.

You were shot through the heart.

You were shot through the heart.

You were shot through the heart.

I have to physically leave the cabin, get as far away as I can without becoming too exhausted to make the trip back. I walk as fast as my scars will allow me down the gravel path, my feet crunching loudly in the silence of the woods. I try to get the words to leave my head; leave them behind. I can feel the sweat forming on my forehead and my muscles becoming fatigued. My breathing gets so heavy, but my mind finally unwinds. Then, I make my way back and sit and wait for it to happen again; for the shock to consume my mind, remind me what happened. Remind me that I danced with death. Remind me how lucky I truly am. It happens more times a day than I'd like to admit.

At night, I have to stay up as long as I possibly can so I can fall asleep right away and escape reality. I'll sit on the bed until I can't physical keep my eyes open, hoping it'll be a dreamless, thoughtless sleep. Thoughtless; sometimes. Dreamless; rarely. I dream of the shooting. It's like I'm reliving it over and over. It's always in slow motion, and no matter how hard I try, I can't change the inevitable. But when I get to the moment right before the shot, I'm where you were standing, and you're the one getting shot. Sometimes it's still me, or Javi, or Kev, but it's almost always you.

And every time it's you, I wake up screaming and crying. My palms are sweaty and I can't seem to catch my breath. It scares me absolutely shitless. I've almost called you a few times when I wake up from a nightmare; my fears getting the best of me. But then I remind myself that you're alive and Espo's alive and Ryan's alive, and so am I. I put my phone down and try to relax my nerves, slow my breaths. Everyone's fine and it was just a dream; an unconscious hell. My mind fucks with me even when I can't control my thoughts. It's absolutely exhausting.

It's just so horrifying to see you and the boys in that position. I hope that I never have to experience that in real life. At least when I'm dreaming, I can wake up and it's all gone; just my imagination. But in reality, you don't just wake up; sometimes you never wake up. Sometimes it's not just a dream.

It's shocking every single time. I always knew being a cop, I had the possibility of being shot at. I always thought it would be a druggie or a runaway, hell, even a hostage situation. I never expected a human being would pay another human being to sit behind a grave marker and _kill_ me. Never expected for anyone to hate me so damn much that they would kill me. It's unbelievable.

Slowly but surely, though, I'm grasping the idea, working it into my brain slow enough so that I don't freak out. If I just accept it, maybe I'll be able to move on. I don't want to have nightmares and I don't want to run in the opposite direction of the cabin. I want to get better; I remind myself every day that this is a process and I have to get through each step. And as much as I'm trying to get over this initial shock, the future steps scare the hell out of me. _What am I going to go through next? What if I can't handle it? What if I'm too weak_? Those are the questions that make me lose my appetite and cause me to bite my nails. I don't know what comes next and that's truly terrifying. I'm so used to having so much control over my emotions, and now I feel like a puppet; strings pulling me along and controlling everything and anything I do. It's frustrating and scary and leaves me beside myself.

I just hope I can cut those strings and claw my way back to normal; reality, my reality. A reality where I'm at the precinct and I walk in to find Espo and Ryan and then you show up with two coffees and everything's right and okay. A reality where you and I are so in sync it's scary. A reality where Lanie and I have girl's night and gossip about work. A reality where I can call my dad and have a conversation about our weeks and talk about how things have been. A reality where you invite me to the loft and I get to see Martha and Alexis and spend time with you all. A reality where I wasn't shot. I guess I'll get there eventually. I just hope it all feels the same.

Beckett

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><p><strong>Please review!<strong>

**xoxo**


	4. Chapter 4: Emotions

**Hi there!**

**Now I know why I said I would update every week or so; I got so much busier than I thought I would. I still feel an apology is due! I hate leaving a story for so long without updates. So, sorry! Hopefully this update makes up for my week hiatus.**

**I like how this turned out. It kind of explores the "Why didn't you call?" aspect of the show that was never really explored.**

**Also, I didn't want to do this, but I did delete this and repost it. The server wouldn't load newly updated stories, and I didn't think many people got to see the update; so here it is a second time. If you already saw it, thanks for reading. If not, here it is!**

**So enough of my rambling.**

**Enjoy!**

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><p>Castle,<p>

I feel like I haven't stopped crying in three days. I guess it hit me all at once; and it hit me hard. I'm not in denial. I know what happened, and I'm coming to terms. I'm letting it sink in, become a part of me. There's no sugar coating it anymore. Just rip the band aid off. It happened, it's real, and it's not going away. But sometimes you just need to cry. And I can't seem to stop.

It's this unbelievable sadness, and for no apparent reason. I'm just sad. I'm sad that I'm out here alone, I'm sad that I'm not working. I'm sad about Montgomery. I'm sad about what happened to me. I'm sad that I'll never look the same, that I'll forever bear these damn scars as a constant reminder of my past. As if my brain didn't do a good enough job at that itself.

But I think most of all, I'm sad that I can't find the courage to call you. I want to so badly, but I can't. I just feel like if I called you, I would open up a whole new can of worms; one can too many at this point. I keep thinking if I just wait and let myself work all this out, slowly but surely, I'll be able to come back in a couple of weeks and we can pick up where we left off. Maybe, if I keep that line silent, we'll somehow come back stronger. Maybe by not calling you, I'll finally find the courage to say everything that I've had bottled up inside me for all this time. I don't know, Rick, there's so much I could say, but I don't know how to say it. And I don't know how my brain is justifying not contacting you. But every time I pick up the phone, something stops me. Something tells me to just wait, like always.

It could be fear; telling me that it won't work, telling me that whatever it is that we were getting to was all in my head. That I'm jumping to conclusions about you and me. I'm not afraid to admit that that scares me now. It could be guilt; it's been so long now, I don't know if you even want to hear from me. What if you've moved on? What if I waited too long? Kept you waiting too long? I don't know if I can do that again. Watch you walk away with another woman. It could be that I'm so unbelievably selfish; putting my feelings and emotions before yours. That's so wrong of me.

But the more I think about it, I think I'm just tired. Tired of doing this dance with you, not knowing where I stand. I'm denying these feelings, I have been for a while. I'm tired of having mental debates about whether or not I should say something to you, or give you a certain look, or reach over and fix your hair when it falls out of place. I over-analyze everything between us and it's too much. Maybe that's why I haven't called. I'll over-analyze our conversation and we'll be right back to where we started. Hell, I'm over-analyzing a phone call I haven't even made, that I probably won't make because I'm too scared and too tired. I'm tired of these damn walls holding me back.

So I'll pace back and forth, phone in hand. I'll dial your number, I know it by heart. I'll bite my lip and let my finger hover over the call button, until I finally chicken out and lock my phone, letting all my thoughts tell me that it's a bad idea. That I should just wait and wait and see what happens next. I'm sick of waiting.

It doesn't help that I'm constantly paranoid. If I'm not crying, it's silent. And when it's silent, I can hear everything. A creak in the floor boards or a branch tapping on the window sends me into absolute panic mode. My hands start shaking, and my senses go insane; listen closer, look sooner, react faster. I'm so jumpy that I'm paranoid about being jumpy.

I thought it would only last a little while, but just yesterday, I was standing in the kitchen, trying to find something that wouldn't upset my stomach, and I heard something in the back bedroom. I was frozen, my feet glued to the floor. But my brain was going a million miles a minute. _What do I do? Where do I go? What's back there? Who's back there? _I instinctively reached for my side, but my gun had been unattached to my hip for three weeks now; it made me feel naked. So I grabbed a kitchen knife and slid down the cabinets. It felt so pathetic, hiding like a child, when just before all this, I was a detective; entering at point and chasing suspects. Not only was it pathetic, it was absolutely humiliating.

Somehow, I managed to make my way down the hall and to the bedroom. I may or may not have crawled. I couldn't quite grasp reality, the blood rushing to my ears. I kept tricking myself into thinking I heard footsteps in the opposite direction, or laughter coming from under the bed. It was maddening. So I reached for the closet door, every nerve ending in my hand twitched. I swung it open, the freaking kitchen knife flailing all over the place. Then, after spazzing and stabbing a coat, I realized it had been a shoe box that had fallen from the top shelf. It was mortifying. Not only that, but utterly exhausting. You'd think being a cop would accustom me to things like that. Not after you've been shot and the bastard was never caught. Constantly being on edge left no time to just sit, close my eyes, and collect my thoughts. It was a continuous battle between reason and absurdity.

I feel like I'm cracking; piece by piece, until I'm nothing but a shell of who I once was. I'm not meant to be like this, crying and scared sitting on the kitchen floor with a fucking kitchen knife in my hand. I've always been so proud of how strong I am, or once was. I want to get back to that place. I need to know that I can take on the world and still manage to run in my heels. I need to be able to break a suspect with one arch of my eyebrow. I need to be able to walk into work with my chin held high, knowing that I survived and I'm still here, and I'm back. I can do this, I want to do this. But first, I need to stop wallowing in my own self-pity and sadness. Stop thinking everyone and thing is out to get me. Crying for three days is long enough, too long in my opinion. But nothing is irreversible. If you screw up, fix it. If you're screwed up, fix yourself. I'm trying. I'm going to stop crying. I'm going to start using reason again. I just wish I had the courage to call; maybe soon.

Beckett

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><p><strong>Please review!<strong>

**xoxo**


	5. Chapter 5: Frustration

**Hi there!**

**I FINALLY got this chapter done. It's been such a long week, and after a severe case of writers block, it's finally ready. Thank you for all your sweet reviews, and for following and favoriting. You guys are the best.**

**I hope everyone's having a good Valentine's day. I have a Valentine's day one shot posted; go check it out! It'll turn into a one shot feed as soon as I start writing them. Send me your ideas please!**

**Enjoy!**

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><p>Castle,<p>

I'm so beyond frustrated. Irritated even. I'm frustrated with this cabin. I'm frustrated with my scars. I'm frustrated with my ego. Everything is just too much right now; and when I say everything, I mean this recovery. Every second I sit here until the day I come home is driving me more and more insane. I literally have cabin fever. Oh yes, it's real, and I have it bad. One hundred and two point two degrees, call the doctor, I need out. I feel like I'm trapped inside a box, and everything is either out of reach or too difficult to do. No matter how hard I try, I can't get out of the box. And then I'll try to just deal with the box, but I can't. So I just sit, trapped. I hate feeling confined; it's overwhelming to me. I need to be out in the open and able to function on my own. This whole woe is me bullshit makes me cringe; it's not me. I'm independent and strong. I don't need pity. I need the city, and my life, and my team. I need normal.

I want to come home; I need to. I feel like I'm going crazy. I'm so fidgety out here with nothing to do. I'll find myself just standing in the kitchen, and I kid you not, stacking cans on the counter. I wish I was coming home sooner, honestly. Sitting here twiddling my thumbs is maddening. I need the city. It's calling my name, and each day, the call gets louder and closer. The thought of my structured schedule makes me smile, the excitement building up. I'll get to see my apartment and the boys, I'll get to go to work and do something that actually matters. I'll get to see you.

Those thoughts are the only ones keeping me here. I'll finish my recovery, or how I look at it, prison sentence, and come back to normal. I need normal. Normal to me is so much more than just the city, though. Normal is anything but what the last two months have been. It's buying groceries, it's reading the paper, it's sipping a glass of wine while reading Nikki and Rook, it's finally getting a cup of coffee that isn't instant and stale. It's everything that just doesn't seem right here. No matter how many summers I spent on the lake or in this living room, it feels distant and uninviting; it's lost its appeal. I can't tell if it's because I'm here because of the shooting, or if it's because I'm not a little girl anymore. Either way, there's no more magic. Just a cabin in the woods. Just a hiding place.

And even though I want normal, there's still so much about me that's not normal. Besides the fact that I'm still so damn jumpy, I can't make it through the day without thinking about what I'm not able to do. I can't work out. I can't reach certain things set high on shelves. I can't sleep on my side. I hate saying I can't, but it's so prominent in my daily life at this point, that's I've accepted it for now. It's not permanent, I'd be damned if I let it be. No, it's temporary, just until I'm back. I'll let it think it has the upper hand, and then I'll be back and ready for whatever life hands me, preferably not another bullet.

I tried running the other day. I got cocky; feeling good, thinking I was stronger than the doctor's suggestion of "No physical activity for three months." I was so wrong. It was such a nice day, and my scar hadn't tugged at all in a little over a week. Thinking now, I hadn't done anything to irritate in the first place. So I started slow, watchful of my movement. I was stiff, limiting my range of motion so that my arms stayed high and away from my scar. The gravel was crunching under my feet, and all the while, I was thinking that I was going to come home early. Before I knew it, I was at the fork in the road. I turned too sharply, jerking my side, and stretching my scar. I gasped, the pain the worst it had been in weeks. I literally fell to my knees, trying to regain my composure. I couldn't even process what was happening, it hurt so badly. I'm glad no one saw me, my doctor especially. I could see him having an I told you so moment with that one. I managed to get back to the cabin, walking, and decided, although I didn't want to, I should wait until I get back to partake in physical activity. I plopped down on the couch, and didn't move the rest of the day, scared that I would experience that pain again.

I'd do anything to be able to run and work out. I feel the smallest indication of my stomach becoming pudgy, and my muscles weakening. I swear to God if I get fat because I can't work out, I will be pissed. No one likes a fat cop. And I'll die before I get fat. I have killers to catch, after all. Not donuts to eat.

Not being able to work out isn't even the worst of it. I can't reach certain things here. My dad, bless his heart, stocked everything I would need before I got here. What he didn't keep in mind was that I can't stretch upwards. I tried one day, wanting the box of crackers on the top shelf, not thinking anything of it. I went on my tip toes, and stretched my arms up, pulling my side. I was hit with that excruciating pain again. It was yet another reminder that I was still damaged. But instead of that destroying me further, I used it as a lesson. I may be damaged goods, but I won't let it be a weakness; it's a strength.

Normal and can't flood my vocabulary. So contradictory in a way, but one leading to another. It's a process, and if I can change can't into can, then my reward is normal. Can't is just a contraction of a positive and a negative. It has no physical control over me, just mental. It's trying to make me believe I'm not strong enough to face the world. But it never could. I let it think it was the stronger than me for a while, the very beginning of all of this. But now, I'm showing it that I'm stronger and capable of so much. So as these last few weeks drag on, I'm turning the negatives into positives; testing my mobility, seeking my strength, building my tolerance. I'm trying to calm my nerves little by little. I'm reminding myself of all the good things that are going to come from being back; letting myself daydream of late night Chinese take outs with you and the boys, breakfast with my dad, conversations with Martha, and little moments with you. There is a light at the end of the tunnel, and I've almost reached it. It won't be long now until these frustrations are gone, and I _can_ be who I want. I _can_ do this. I'll see you soon.

Beckett

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><p><strong>Please review!<strong>

**xoxo**


	6. Chapter 6: Anxiety

**Hi there!**

**Like my previous author note, so sorry for taking so long to update! I've been trying to finish for a couple of days, and at least now it's finally done! Just want to point out that this is not the last letter (it kind of seems that way). There's one more after this one. So sad to see it end, but I'm liking how it has turned out, and I'm super excited about the last letter. Thank you all for your reviews, favorites, and follows; it means so much**

**If you have any ideas for one shots please don't hesitate to send them to me! ...Enough of my rambling.**

**Enjoy!**

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><p>Castle,<p>

I thought I was so ready, and I guess I still am, but now I can't help but to let my thoughts destroy that readiness. I'm so nervous and anxious about the whole thing. I shouldn't be, really. But I've been away for so long, what if things are different? With just one week to go, I'm not sure if I've had enough time to prepare myself for the real world. I thought I had, I thought that I was more than ready to jump back into it and be who I know I can be, but the real world is scary.

As much as I want to get out of this damn cabin, I'm scared. I usually don't admit to such things, but I am. I'm scared that I'm not ready and that I'll crash and burn. I can't do that. Not after all that's happened. I need to show people that I'm just as strong as I was before I was shot, even if I'm not right at this moment. That's why I need this. So I can forget about "right at this moment", and focus on everything that I have to come back to.

So many questions are running through my mind. So many what ifs that I don't know the answer to. It's like a test that you studied for for weeks, and then you go to take that test and you can't remember a single answer. I feel like everything I thought or think I know is going to be different. Like it's changed. Odds are they haven't but what if I haven't been remembering correctly? What if I've painted the wrong picture? Three months is a long time to be away from everything that's familiar. It's a long time to make things up, to study for the wrong test. But I guess that's a price I'm willing to pay if that means I get to come home.

But then I start thinking, "What if people treat me differently?" Just because I was shot doesn't make me weak. I know I'll get the sidelong glances and quiet whispers as I walk through the precinct. Everywhere I turn, someone will know what's happened to me and they'll feel bad for me. The young detective shot at her captain's funeral. That's what I'm afraid I'll be labeled as now; it will ruin my reputation. I don't want pity, and I don't want to be treated differently. I will and can be just the same as I was before there was a hole in my chest. It doesn't define who I am. And I guess neither do the people who see me after this. They may or may not know me, but they don't have a clue as to who I truly am. Only a few have taken a glimpse into my past and still want to be seen in my future, you being one of them.

Besides the fact that I want to be just the same as I was before, I can't shake the nagging feeling that I'm going to fail. I can't help but worry that I'm thinking too highly of myself, or that I'm assuming I'm more capable than I think. And that will only lead to my downfall; crash and burn, up in flames. I'm scared that I'll fail. I'm scared that no matter what I do, I'm going to screw it up and land on my ass. I can't fail. I've never strived for anything but success. I guess it's a pride thing. Either way, there's no guaranteeing what is going to happen. It's a waiting game, literally. I've been waiting and waiting and we'll see how I do on this God forsaken test that I've been studying for. I'm going into it feeling confident, unchanged. But things can spin around in an instant. I could fail, or I could succeed. I didn't study so long and so hard for nothing. I think I'm ready.

Seven days. Seven long days. Seven days that will fly by. One hundred sixty eight hours. Ten thousand eighty minutes. Six hundred and four thousand eight hundred seconds. Seven days filled with anxiousness, anxiety, nerves, and excitement. I'm a bundle of emotions right now; good and bad. I'll catch myself looking out the window with a giant smile spread across my face just thinking of the precinct. But then I'll be sitting on the couch, chewing on my finger nails, nerves jolting through me about anything and everything that could possibly go wrong. I just hope that whatever happens these last few days, I have enough time to just be. With all these thoughts running through my head, I need to take a deep breath and focus on what's important; coming home, normalcy. Like I said, I thought I was ready. I want to come home, I really, really do, but I don't know if I'll be able to handle it all. So just a couple more peaceful, quiet days might calm all these nerves, and finally have me one hundred percent ready to face reality. I'm craving it; wanting to reach out to it and grab it. I'm almost there.

That's when I make myself think of you. You'd probably laugh at me for saying that, I can practically see it. "Oh Detective Beckett, do I sense a bit of compassion for yours truly?" I can see you sitting in your chair, your head in your hand, propped up by your elbow. You're hunched over, voice just above a whisper, painting a picture of the elaborate theory in your head. A fit of hand gestures and raised eyebrows. And all the while, I'm sitting there with a half-smile on my face and an eye roll ready at a moment's notice. I've lived that scenario so many times that it's more than just a memory to me. It's a part of my day. It makes it that much better. _That's_ what's normal and familiar and real. _That's_ what I want to come home to.

So for the remainder of my never ending recovery, I'll think of normal and remember that I'll always have you, the boys, Lanie, Martha, and my dad to lean back on, to show me familiar. Because even if I have the entirely wrong test, I know you'll slip me the right answers; no questions asked. Anxiety and what ifs aside, I can't wait to see all of you. It's been three months too long. Three months that I needed, three months that hurt, three months that helped, three months that have showed me what I want. It's time to come home.

Beckett

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><p><strong>Please review!<strong>

**xoxo**


	7. Chapter 7: Love

**Hi there!**

**So here it is, the very last letter! I'm extremely happy with how this turned out, and I hope you love it as much as I do. Thank you for all the reviews, favorites, and follows. You guys make it worth it! **

**There will be an epilogue that follows, just to wrap it all up. Please if you have any one shot ideas, send them in! I'm open to anything.**

****I don't usually recommend listening to songs when reading, but In My Veins adds a nice touch to this. ;)**

**Enjoy!**

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><p>Rick,<p>

I'm coming home tomorrow, and it's the scariest, happiest, weirdest feeling. Just one car ride separates me from home; I can't wait. I've been up in the cabin for months, trying to grasp reality and heal. I've been writing letters, letters that aren't supposed to be addressed to anybody. It's a therapy exercise that at first I thought was never going to be worth anything. But then I decided to address them, six of them to you. And I know what you're thinking, writer boy. You won't be getting any of them. But for some reason, then they meant something to me. Something in my head told me that seeing your name across the top made it worth something.

I've written five, and I wasn't going to write this sixth one, but as I thought about it more, I realized that I didn't say everything that I needed to. I was told to get it all out, pour my emotions on to the page. And that's what I've been doing. But I avoided this specific topic until now. I made a promise to myself that I would make these letters mean something, and that's a promise I'm not going to break. I didn't want to do this for nothing. So I'm writing one last one; the one that means the absolute most to me. It's also the most difficult. I've never been any good at expressing my emotions, good or bad. And I've never experienced feelings in a way that were worth describing. Nothing seemed to give me that fairy tale moment that you wish for as soon as you know what love is. A little, thirteen year old Kate walking around, wondering when she would meet her prince charming and get swept off her feet. Happily ever after.

I still hadn't found it when the murder happened. That cold, January night changed me forever. Nineteen with a stone cold heart. It's not what I had pictured my life would look like going into my twenties. From that point on, I never thought I would experience life the same way. Everything had a sour taste and a grey shadow. But then I found your books, and I made an escape from it all. Every time I opened the cover, I was diving into a world so much better than my own. It took away the grey just for a little while. Ultimately, I was falling in love. Not the way I imagined it, though; I was falling in love with the characters and their ability to be nothing but perfect. I was falling in love with seeing emotion and feeling those moments with them. It was something different. A welcome distraction from my mess of a life. And I remember thinking so highly of you, I still do, but knowing that you had the ability to help me through my mother's murder without you even knowing it was incredible to me.

Then you showed up at that precinct, scruffy face and cocky remarks swinging left and right. It makes me laugh, thinking about how different you are now. But initially, I was so shocked that someone who helped me so much, made me fall in love with something, and patched up my wounds was so different than expected. It was like I had been lied to and that hurt. But slowly I realized that you weren't just your front. You're caring and thoughtful, you're a wonderful father, and a compassionate man. If I would have shot you that first week like I wanted to, I would have never gotten to know you so well.

And that's when it all began; a dysfunctional, witty, theory-filled pair; Espo and Ryan along for the ride. Mom, dad and the kids. For the longest time it was me trying to tolerate you and you trying to get me to snap. But we always made it work, always figured it out. We've screamed and made up and laughed and cried. We've grown so much over the past three years, it seems crazy to think how we started out. And over that time, my attitude and feelings have changed also.

I think we've changed each other. I think that we were brought together when we needed someone the most. I wasn't happy, just getting through day by day, burying myself in work, trying to act like I was fine. And you were Mr. Popular, parties, friends, and money. But that doesn't always mean happiness. So we went with it. We worked out the kinks and created a partnership like I've never had. And before I was shot, things were starting to change in a way that was different from "us". I started seeing you differently, noticed things; sideways glances, a brush of your hand, a different kind of smile. And as much as that excited me, it scared me. That's when I started getting nervous, new feelings presenting themselves that I either hadn't felt for a while or ever before. So I hid in a relationship that didn't mean anything to me. I regret it now, one because I ended it, and two because I wasted time.

And this is when it gets difficult for me, admitting my feelings and expressing emotion. These stupid walls have made it so much harder than it needs to be. I had to go through everything, all of our time together, to get to what I'm trying to say. Because I've been waiting a long time to say it.

I remember. Everything. I remember the shot. I remember you screaming my name and tackling me, trying to get to me in time. I remember you holding me in your arms as the world grew fuzzy. I remember the horrifyingly scared look on your face and the tears in your eyes. I remember hearing those words that you spoke with a shaky breath. "Kate. Stay with me Kate. Don't leave me. Stay with me, okay? Kate, I love you. I love you, Kate." I've replayed them over and over; a moment I wish I could forget, a moment I never will. And then, you were the last thing I saw before my eyes slipped shut.

I've spent three months thanking whatever it was that kept me alive, because I never did get to answer you. I never got to return those words. I had to watch helplessly as I laid in the grass, you over top of me, dying. So now, I get to say it.

I love you.

I've never felt the way I feel about you with anyone else. It's like I'm thirteen again, skipping down the street just waiting for it. And there you are, my fairy tale. You've helped me through so much and have been there always. You're more than just a partner to me. You're my best friend, you're my confider, you're my work husband. You're who I see myself with in the future. I want this to work because I've never felt so right about something in my entire life. And you make my life a little more fun. So, that's why I wrote this last letter. Because it couldn't go unsaid any longer. I love you, Castle, and thank you, for everything.

Always,

Kate

And when she signed it, she pulled out the last of the addressed envelops, nestling her confession into the sleeve. She sealed it tight, not wanting her secret to escape. But it would, very soon. She took her pen in her hand again and wrote his address under his name. She scanned it again, taking a sigh of relief. A weight had been lifted off her shoulders. She never thought she'd have the courage to express what she was feeling. But there it was, neat and prim, folded up and addressed to the man that she cared for so much.

She left the cabin, and jogged the mile on the gravel lane to the fork in the road where the mailman stopped every week. She made it just in time as she handed it over to him readily. "When do you think this will get to where it needs to be?" She panted, slightly out of breath.

The man looked at the address and then back to her. "It'll most likely be there tomorrow around noon." He smiled at her, turning around to resume him route.

Tomorrow at noon. Everything would change.

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><p><strong>Please review and let me know what you think!<strong>

**xoxo**


	8. Chapter 8

**Hi there!**

**So here it is, the epilogue! I hope you've enjoyed this story as much as I've enjoyed writing it. I want to thank everyone for their feedback on the letters, especially the last one. You all are amazing. **

**I will be starting one shots shorty, and hope to have a new, longer story start to develop in the near future. With school it is difficult, but I love writing so I won't be MIA for too long. Feel free to drop any ideas you have for one shots; anything you want to see, any AU, different endings, etc. All are accepted.**

**Also, if you're freaking out about 6x17 as much as I am, please PM me! I need someone to discuss with. :)**

**Enjoy!**

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><p>It was two in the afternoon, a beautiful Saturday evening. The warmth from the sun floated in through the open windows of her apartment, the breeze kicking up the curtains every so often. It intermingled with the music she had put on when she had gotten back. The smells were familiar, the walls were comforting, and everything was hers; she was home.<p>

She had immediately gotten to work, cleaning and dusting and unpacking, trying to get everything back into place as quickly as she could. All she wanted was to sit on her own couch in her own apartment and enjoy the normal.

But she had stopped for a moment, finding herself standing at the open window, just staring. She was mesmerized by the constant flow of activity, ever changing but so constant. She loved it. She breathed in, closing her eyes as she thought about being back as a smile melted onto her face. This was what she had been waiting for; the city, the noise, her place, her ordinary. It made those three months seem worth it. Now, she got to stand here in her apartment to enjoy and appreciate what she just might have taken for granted before. But not anymore. The shooting had taught her that nothing is certain, nothing set in stone. So you have to thrive from the positive and learn from the negative and take everything day by day.

A knock at her door drew her from her thoughts. She had no clue who it could be, wasn't expecting anyone. The boys knew she would be in tomorrow, Lanie had helped her and her dad move back in, and no one else really knew she was back just yet. She tiptoed around the few boxes that were scattered on her living room floor, making her way to the entry way. When she swung the door open, she stood face to face with the man that changed her. There she stood, jaw hanging and shock in her expression, trying to decide what exactly to say.

And there he stood, letter in hand, and a look on his face that couldn't be deciphered. He looked nervous, or maybe excited. There was a hint of wonderment, or maybe it was anxiousness. Kate couldn't figure it out, couldn't read him. She couldn't leave him standing there in the doorway, though, so she finally used her words. "Come in." She shuffled to the side, raising her arm to signal him inside.

He stepped over the threshold, moving to the center of the room. He turned around to face her once more, still too many emotions on his face to interpret. "Hi."

She bit her lip, never breaking eye contact. "Hey."

"You're back."

"Yeah." She nodded, sensing that he was beating around the bush. He had something to say, but was trying to find the exact words to say it.

He bowed his head, running his hand through his hair. He did this a couple of times before looking at her again, this time with a slight grin on his face and a twinkle in his eye. He held the piece of paper up as reference. "This. Is this all true? Do you mean all of this?" He never broke eye contact with, trying to read any emotion that might register on her face.

He had gotten the letter addressed to him in the mail that very day. He recognized the handwriting immediately as hers. He was eager to open it, wanting to see what she could possibly be writing him for. But on the same token, he was content to just let it sit. She hadn't bothered to contact him in three months; no texts, no calls, no letters, no emails, no nothing. She had broken all ties. And that hurt him. It was like losing your best friend, the woman he loved.

But his curiosity had gotten the best of him, drawing him to the corners of the envelope. He tore at it gingerly, not wanting to ruin whatever it was that she had nestled inside. He was glad he had sat down before he started reading. Every word, phrase, and paragraph was filled with so much emotion; so raw and truthful. It was like she was finally opening up, knocking down the walls that had kept him out for so long.

And then he came across those three words. So small, so powerful, so life changing. He read them over and over_. I love you._ There they were on paper, in ink, in her handwriting. It was real. He could barely finish the rest of the letter, his mind clouded with those three words he had so longed to hear. But as soon as he had finished, his eyes darted immediately to the beginning and read it a second, third, and fourth time.

It was then that he stopped and looked at the clock. He had spoken to Lanie, trying to get details about her return. Lanie told him she would be home around one. It was now coming up on one thirty. She would be home. She was in the city. She was in driving distance of the loft. So he made his decision. He grabbed the letter and his car keys and drove the short distance to her place. He couldn't wait to see her any longer.

She had thought about this moment, knew he would get the letter, read it, and be over to talk to her. She just hadn't expected for it to be so soon. Everything she had written was out in the open, and that's how she wanted it to be. But she wasn't very good with using her words; they only registered well on paper. So she had to answer in a way that would reflect her feelings, both in writing and in the physical. "Yes, every single thing I wrote is one hundred percent true." She gave him a look of absolute compassion, trying to show him all she was thinking. "It took me so long to realize, and I hate that it took the shooting for me to figure it out. But yes, Rick, it's all true."

He stood there with a half-smile on his face, processing her words. She meant it. She remembered and she felt the same way. It was like the start of something completely new; it was exciting and inviting and almost magical. It made his feelings about her lack on contact melt away in an instant. All he cared about was this; all he needed was to hear those words.

He moved closer to her, locking his lips with hers with everything he had been holding inside for almost the entire duration of their partnership. Every moment, every tension, every lost chance, every word unsaid was projected into his kiss. All he wanted was to be as close to her as possible.

She kissed him back, wrapping her arms around his neck. She hadn't realized how much she longed for this until they were in the moment. She had pushed her feeling aside, deeming them useless. But that was the past, and now she was embracing anything and everything she felt. She wanted this and she needed it. He was so much more than a partner; they both knew that now. They broke apart, forehead resting on forehead, blissful smiles on their faces. She leaned back to look him in the eyes. "I love you."

His smile spread so wide, she thought it might fall of his face. "You don't know how long I've waited to hear you say that." He tightened his grip around her waist, kissing her forehead. She rested her head under his chin, making up for all the time they had wasted. "I love you too."

"This is going to work." She nodded her head into his chest, inhaling his scent. She had missed the earthy, natural smell that was so _him_.

"Absolutely."

She could hear the smile in his voice as one crept onto her face as well. They would make this work. But it seemed like it already did. They knew each other, spent every day talking and sharing and interpreting. They knew each other's dynamics, ticks, indulgences, thoughts, personalities; everything that a couple was, they emanated. Now, though, they were finally admitting it. They finally embraced their attraction, and it had only taken a letter and a stamp.

They stood this was, nestled in each other's arms for a moment longer before breaking apart. Castle's grin turned mischievous as he spoke. "So you do think I'm ruggedly handsome?"

"Don't even start, writer boy." She smacked him on the arm and rolled her eyes before kissing him again.

It was all working out in their favor. As painful as it had started out, as much as she cursed the shooter and her scars and all the time, she couldn't ask for a better outcome. Her recovery led her to this; take the good from the bad and run with it. She was home. He was hers and she was his. It was right, finally.

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><p><strong>Thank you so much for reading. Please review!<strong>

**xoxo**


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